God of War: Blades of Redemption
by MissScorp
Summary: Kratos has carved a path of bloody vengeance that has shattered the very foundation upon which Olympus was built. Just when he thinks he is done he is called upon by a specter of his past—a woman that tells him she needs his help to stop a new threat from arising. Will the Ghost of Sparta seek redemption? Or will he leave her to her fate? ((K/OFC))
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but for my OFC of Briseis (as well as any other OC like character I might contrive) and general concept and theme.

* * *

Over the brink of nameless cliffs he rides: a battle weary warrior trying to find his way home, pale as the moon in the sky. He sees nothing, not the scarlet slash of his own tattoo, not the crimson stain from where his life's blood has poured from his body, nothing but the white ash that still coats his skin. But then there was moonlight, sprinkling through the dark to bring blurry smears of shape and shadow and sound. There were scents, flowers and earth and water. And the bewitching scent of woman. And there was heat.

Temperature meant little to one such as him, but he could feel the shift of it from the coolness of the bluffs he'd just left behind. It was a baking heat, eased only a little by a breeze from off the water. Sea, he corrected. It was the ocean, waves lapping at the jagged rocks below. There were hills rising up from the beach. Flowers spread over the terraces of those hills. And on one of the rises, the highest in fact, stood a temple, white as the moonlight with its marble columns facing towards the ocean. The sound of his mounts bridle jingled as he rode, leaving the valley below behind and climbing high up to the mountain bluffs. Thunder rumbled in the east, over the sea. And echoed deep within his heart. It was a familiar scene, one that had his heart pounding with an unfamiliar yearning and expectation, with trepidation and growing vexation.

What could the woman _want_ with him?

His eyes shifted, scanned, searching rock and stone for any hole where a trap could be laid. Where an enemy could hide. Even as he urged his mount up the rugged path cleaved into the cliff he knew he still carried the stench of blood and death upon him, that it had seeped into his pores just as the memories of it had seeped into his soul. Neither mind nor body would ever be fully clean again. His disgust rippled over his face; the very length and breadth of Greece trembled in the wake of his path of vengeance.

Blood and death.

That was the stock of his trade. Ashes and blood and death, a cold and lonely existence: These are to be his penance for the havoc he's wrought upon the world. His only dream now is for death to claim him. He has been known as the Ghost of Sparta. He has been called the Fist of Ares and the Champion of Athena. He was the God of War. A Slave of the Gods. He has been all of those things. And is none of them now. His name is Kratos, and the burden of guilt for the devastation he has wrought lies heavy upon his massive shoulders.

A shadow moving on his left had him automatically reaching behind him for the blades that have become an extension of himself. Even in such a place as this a man did not lower his guard. Even here nymphs plotted or danced, and witches cast their spells for good or evil. But the blades are gone, tossed away by his own hands. His only weapon now are the hands guiding his mount up the steep and narrow incline.

What could she want _from_ him?

The hands that rein in his mount bear the calluses of a warrior not only familiar with wielding Spartan javelin and shield but the Blades of Olympus and Exile as well. Those hands have taken more lives than Kratos could count, could even recall. He's done what no other mortal could. He's accomplished feats that not even the gods themselves imagined possible. But now there was nothing left for him to do. He has nothing-is nothing, now. Whatever has not abandoned him, he has willfully thrown away. He has no friends- at least none who would admit a friendship with one such as him-for he is feared and hated for the things he has done.

No living creature looks upon him with love or even the hint of affection-not even the women he takes to his bed view him with any tender sort of emotion. He has no enemies- he has destroyed all those who have wronged him. His hands tighten on the reins as lightning cracks the black sky in a burst of blinding white light. But then _she_ was there, just there, conjured up from out of the storm-whipped air. Hers was an ethereal beauty with hair a riot of curls as dark as the night and skin like fresh cream.

She had deep eyes, vividly blue and intense with a dramatic arch of brows over them. And the contrast of that black hair, those black brows and brilliant blue eyes against that fair skin had his heart leaping, and his blood churning in a familiar mixture of anger, defiance, lust. She came to him, wading through the knee-high grass, her movements as fluid as the water from whence she'd came. With his eyes on hers, he swung off his horse, and remembered other times when they had met here by this temple that was homage to her father, the sea-god Poseidon.

"Briseis."

"Kratos."

She, too, remembered the other times when they had met here. And ached for the innocence of the children, the friends and confidantes they'd once been. "I apologize for calling you to this place that holds..." A flicker of something-pain, sorrow, regret, Kratos could not define which, flickered in her eyes but was gone almost before he could be sure of what he saw. "So many memories for us."

"Why have you called me here, Briseis?"

"I need your help, Kratos."

"A daughter of _Poseidon_ is asking for my help?" His hard, ridged lips bowed in the ghost of a smile. "And which of your siblings are you conspiring against me with, Briseis?"

She sighed because it hurt, more than a little bit, to think that he held _her_ in the same regards that he held the rest of Olympus. "I am not conspiring with any of my siblings against you, Kratos."

"I do not believe you," he growled, and strode back to his horse. Before his hand could catch hold of the reins, the horse vanished before his eyes. The world shimmered about him, and he realized he was caught beneath her spell, trapped within her control. He humphed and half-turned to fix her with a baleful stare. "I see you are still as manipulative as ever."

"I am not manipulat-" Briseis began but Kratos cut her off with an impatient jerk of his hand.

"You manipulated my will." He gritted. "You called me to you when you knew that my mind was most susceptible to the pull of your..._magic_."

"You're right." She stepped towards him, reached out and set her hand on his arm. Beneath her palm, the muscles of his forearm quivered as he fought to control his growing exasperation. "I admit it. I _did_ manipulate your will in order to call you to me. But Kratos, I would not have called upon you in this way if..."

She let out a tiny gasp when he caught her chin in a firm grip.

"Sending a messenger to me with a request for aid would have brought me to your side. As you well know it would have."

His touch, the feel of his fingers upon her flesh, shocked her. The heat of his body consumed her—a storm of fire and flame raced through her. She clutched at her scattered wits, pulled the steadily unraveling thread of magic taut in order to keep her spell steady. With a small sigh, she tried to pull her chin free. He tightened his grip. She fixed him with a blistering glare; humphed. Brows rising, Kratos studied her, saw the quick, speculative glance she threw him from beneath lowered lashes. The ends of his lips lifted. His brows rose another, more considering, notch. Was he unsettling her? The idea pleased him.

That he was still as ill-tempered, still as demanding, and still as proud was of no surprise to her. He'd been autocratic and bold when they'd been children. The only difference between the man that stood in front of her now and the one that had stood in front of her so many years before was the amount of scars that the older version of the man had acquired during his years of servitude to the gods.

"Don't you think I would have sent a messenger to you had it been possible for me to _actually_ do so?"

With a snarl he lost what little patience he was still in possession of.

"I tire of this game, Briseis. Either tell me what it is that you want of me or release me from this spell you have cast." Briseis was slow in responding. She did not look at him directly but seemed to be studying something that was behind him. Kratos felt the last vestiges of his control unraveling. "You are trying my patience, woman."

"As you have tried mine, Spartan." Briseis said, a bit sadly. "By the Gods, Kratos, I had no idea that Aries had already put his plans in motion the night I came to warn you."

The former God of War lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes; felt his features twisting into a bitter mask as the memory of that night rose to life within him. That argument with her had preceded the events that led to his murdering his precious wife and child. Briseis felt the sting of that memory all the way to her soul, ached for the pain that it caused him. She moved closer until there was barely an inch of room between their bodies.

"Can you ever forgive me for not being able to protect them, Kratos?"

Forgive _her_? He had only just forgiven himself for what he had done. Instinctively though, Kratos knew that he could not hold Briseis at fault for what had happened in that village temple. Demigoddess she might be, Briseis was no match against a warrior like him much less a god like Ares.

"The night that you came to warn me that they were in danger," he said softly. "Did you know that they were there in that village temple?"

By the gods, did he not know who was responsible for having brought his wife and child to that village temple?

"Can it be that you don't know?" She reached up and laid her palms upon his cheeks, smoothed her thumb over his right eye and the scar that Ares had given him what felt like a lifetime ago. Kratos tried to pull away, but her gentle touch ignited something deep within his soul, something that he was absolutely powerless to fight against. "Did _she _never tell you why your wife and child were there in her temple?"

Kratos growled. "Briseis! Stop!"

He felt the flow of energy that passed from her hands into his body, jerked to free himself but found his body refused to obey. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to reject this magic—but it was too late. Her power spread through him, as heady and powerful as the finest ambrosia. He was plunged into darkness, needles dancing across his brain, pricking faster but not causing him any type of real discomfort. His head felt as if it would explode from all the sights and sounds assailing him. And when he opened his eyes he found himself somewhere else, entirely.

* * *

War was but the template that Kratos planned to use in order to secure his place as a legend. Already he was considered a hero. In Sparta, men fought for the privilege to serve beneath him. But Kratos longed to be considered among the likes of Hercules, Odysseus and Achilles-legendary warriors who had epic tales being told about them. To achieve his goal, Kratos went to greater and greater lengths, employing insane tactics and launching campaigns that appeared suicidal in order to secure victories. And he would continue killing-for Ares, for the glory of Sparta, for the simple pleasure of watching bodies die by his sword-until he'd secured his rightful place in history. Mortal and immortal world- ally and enemy alike- shivered at the mere mention of his name...

...all but this woman that sat glaring at him from astride the back of the winged Pegasus. This bold and audacious woman, who was the only half-mortal who dared challenge his fury with her own.

"Where does the slaughtering end, Kratos? When does enough become enough?"

"You are trying my patience, woman!"

"As you are trying mine, Spartan," she spat with blistering fury.

In the distance thunder rumbled and lightning streaked the sky. Kratos heard his men voicing alarm over angering the gods, over incurring their wrath. He glared, one long, frustrated stare at Briseis, who merely lifted one dark brow derisively. Then he spun his horse around and made ready to ride to the front of his army, to rally them behind him and lead them against this village that had insulted the God of War by swearing allegiance to the goddess, Athena.

But her next words stopped him cold.

"I want to take your wife and daughter to Atlantis, Kratos. I want to place them beneath the protection of my lord father."

He brought his chestnut up alongside the black, felt the heat that radiated from the smoldering wings of Pegasus.

"You dare use my wife and child as a means to bend me to your will?"

He reached for her but the big horse shifted, and blew smoke from its nostrils while stomping his foot ominously. Kratos frowned but understood the warning. Briseis merely stroked a hand over the sleek mane, soothing the horse before looking back at Kratos.

"You know better than to accuse me of such deceit." She reached out to set her hand on his arm, felt the chains fused to his forearms singing her palm with the rage and violence that gave the blades their power. "I fear for their safety, Kratos."

He shot her a sharp glance. "What have you heard?"

"There are rumblings on Olympus," she said. "And whispers that have reached as far as my father's water palace. A plan is being hatched by the goddess of stratagems that will teach the god of war a lesson in humility."

Kratos merely snorted. "Athena is a fool."

"Athena is the goddess of wisdom and strategy, Kratos. Do not question nor doubt that she is incapable of outsmarting her brother Ares. She has done so before."

"Ares has nearly crushed all of Athena's temples. All that remains is to attack Athens."

"Kratos—this petty feud between Ares and Athena bodes badly for you."

"Oh?" Brows rising, he looked down at her, arrogantly challenging. "And why is that?"

"Because." Briseis met his gaze, sheer determination in hers. The horses sidled and stamped—sending them swaying closer. She raised her brows. "I fear that the one who could be made to pay for these infractions could be _you_. I want your permission to take Calliope and Lysandra where they will be safe."

"They are safe in Sparta," he growled.

But Briseis merely shook her head. "No Kratos. Sparta is no longer a safe place for them. By the gods, think! You know I would not speak of my fears if I were not certain that those fears were justified."

"If any mortal dares to touch my family, I will not hesitate to unleash my vengeance upon them."

"And what if the threat to your family comes from an immortal, Kratos? Not even you have the power in which to fight a god…"

Before Kratos could respond, before he could grab hold of the woman and demand she explain herself, a wall of fire sprang up between them, exactly like the flames that had consumed every house and building that had been in the village. The flames blinded him, scorched his flesh. And the air sizzled with the song of the Blades of Chaos. They whirled with the mindlessness of his rage, flashed with a life of their own as they struck down whatever was in their path...

…and whomever as well.


	2. Chapter 1a

_Continued..._

* * *

Briseis pulled her hands away from his face, her face ashen and eyes a deeper, turbulent shade of blue. "By the gods. Athena never told you who it was that took your wife and daughter to that village." Not for the first time and most certainly not the last, Briseis cursed the gods for their machinations and cruelty, for their selfishness and love of amusement of mortal strife. She set her hand upon his chest; felt the heart that beat a hard tattoo against her palm.

"_I_ am the reason for why they were in that village that night, Kratos. _I_ took them there."

Kratos felt the familiar stirrings of his anger and hatred rising up to choke him. It took all his self-control to not grab her by the throat.

"_Why_?" He demanded. "Why did you take them there?" He'd said it calmly enough but Briseis heard the anger, the desperation that was in his voice. "You said you were going to take them to Atlantis. That you were going to ask your father to _protect_ them. Why didn't you?"

"I had no choice, Kratos." She braced herself, prepared to face his wrath, told herself she deserved it for the part she'd unwittingly played in his downfall. "Ares had already dispatched his legionnaires to Sparta. I had to move them."

The power in her, around her, wavered. And she felt herself fading, her body as thin and as vaporous as smoke. But she bore down, exerted more of her preciously stored energy. He would hear from her what none of the other Gods could tell: the truth.

"I began to see that Aries was far more than just headstrong and rebellious, or brutally ambitious and bloodthirsty. Aries was _insane_. And Kratos, that is a disease most deadly when inside the heart of a god."

This was truth, Kratos knew, absolute and unmistakable. But he could not make his lips form the words that would acknowledge that she spoke the truth-a truth that he, himself, was more than capable of substantiating as being cold, brutal fact. He had served Ares not only with his sword arm but with his entire heart, his mind, and every ounce of power that was at his disposal. He had fed the God of War's ever increasing madness with his own lust of carnage and unstoppable brutality. He felt the hand that rest upon his chest, but did not feel the warmth where he needed it most: inside his heart.

"Aries began making threats against Olympus," she continued in a soft voice. "But he knew that he stood no chance of defeating Zeus on his own. Zeus' rule about Olympians being forbidden from fighting each other _was_ still in effect. But then the God of War remembered the prophecy that said that a marked warrior would be the one who would bring Olympus crumbling down."

Kratos knew that she'd again given him the truth. As hard as it was to hear, to accept, he knew she only spoke the truth. "But Deimos was de..."

"Deimos was never the marked warrior that the Oracle foresaw in her vision." Briseis cut-in quietly. "And Ares knew he had chosen the wrong brother after you'd pledged your allegiance to him."

His hatred for Ares-indeed for all the gods that had betrayed him, shone in the depths of his eyes. But there was also the glimmer of something else, an emotion that Briseis had only glimpsed on the Spartan's face whenever he was with his wife and daughter. It gave her hope that he would see reason and understand finally the sequence of events as they occurred and her own part in them.

"Realizing that he now had a weapon in which he could bring Olympus to its knees, he began to groom you, slowly and surely. He nurtured your bloodlust, fed your hatred, and granted you a sliver of his own strength and power so that you could see what you could become while you were a servant to him. But your wife and daughter stood in his way of turning you into the ultimate warrior. Lysandra and Calliope was the one spot of goodness inside of you that could crush all of Aries' careful planning. And so he decided they needed to be eliminated."

Kratos's arms hung at his sides, the vast chords of knotted muscle limp and useless. His shoulders slumped, and his head lowered. Briseis wanted to comfort him, to soothe his hurt and take away the pain, but knew that she could not. He needed to know the truth. And he had to accept that truth. Same as he'd needed to find forgiveness- for himself and from himself. The tears that swam into her eyes burned like acid. He lifted his head to look at her but she had turned to stare out over the churning sea.

"Why did you not tell me this the night that you confronted me?"

"Zeus forbid it." She turned to look at him from over one shoulder and Kratos read in her eyes that she'd been made to pay for having disobeyed the King of the Gods.

"Zeus..." the truth slammed into him, shook him, fueled his anger and reignited his hatred. His hands wanted to flex and curl into fists. More, they wanted to strike. Deliberately, he set them upon her shoulder, went to turn her towards him, and registered her whimper of pain with a frown. "What have you done to yourself?"

"It is naught but a flesh wound," she replied. "Nothing to concern yourself about."

"You lie." He growled. "Show me this _flesh_ wound, Briseis."

She stared at him. For one long moment she did nothing but stare at him. Saw the fire of vengeance and anger that burned in his eyes. And was almost sorry for it.

"Let it be, Kratos."

She never saw it coming. One second he was studying her with that intense scrutiny, and the next he'd yanked her against him and ripped aside the sleeve of her chiton. Briseis hurled obscenities at him and struggled to free herself. But the sheer strength of him was not something she could overcome. She ceased her struggles, realizing her effort was futile and contented herself with shooting him dirty looks. A smile curled his lips but turned into a wordless snarl as he saw the claw marks that extended over her right shoulder and zigzagged a bloody path down her back. The wounds were raw and angry. And obviously made by a creature with razor sharp talons. Such as the talons that harpies had, Kratos thought as his glower deepened. But his voice was calm, just a bit detached when he asked;

"Did harpies do this?"

His touch ignited a rush of pain inside her. Hot, angry, draining. It took what precious energy she had remaining to keep her spell steady. "I beg you to let it be, Kratos!"

"Did harpies do this to you, Briseis?" he repeated in a rumbling growl. Detached? She thought wildly. How could she ever have thought he was detached? He gave her one quick shake. "Are they what hurt you?"

And it did hurt, one deep, throbbing ache in the pit of her stomach, a slow, twisting twinge in the heart that had nothing to do with the pain of her wounds.

"Yes," she said finally. "Harpies are who caused my wounds."

Harpies were huge, filthy and emaciated creatures that looked like horribly disfigured women with the wings of bats and the talons of owls. He hated harpies. They were obnoxiously loud pests that tended to hamper and distract him from his quest. Harpies were normally found in the underworld… realization for why she had used magic to call him hit him in that moment.

"You are imprisoned within the underworld," he did not phrase it as a question. He saw no need too. "That is why you could not send a messenger to me."

"Yes."

In that moment, Kratos realized that a purpose still lay ahead of him. Upon the cold ground at the shrine of Olympus, Kratos had found a way to banish the nightmares that haunted him and discovered the power of hope and forgiveness. But he had also sworn an oath to his beloved wife and daughter: he would not fail another person that he cared for. The weight of that oath was heavy on his shoulders now and he knew he would not rest until he had found the creatures that had marked the flesh that was warm beneath his hands and destroyed each and every one of them.

"Tell me the name of the one who holds you."

The sound of the surf drummed in her ears, echoed in her heart. Reminded her that she was alone, that she had called to him _because_ she was alone and afraid.

"He has no name-chooses none by which to call himself."

Kratos frowned. "What manner of man is he that he could-"

"He is not a man, Kratos." She said flatly. "Not anymore. He is one of the imprisoned souls that you unleashed with the death of my uncle, Lord Hades. But rather than fleeing the Underworld as many of the other imprisoned souls did, he stayed behind and proclaimed himself as the dark realms new ruler. But Hades this creature is not."

She sighed, because it could still hurt, just a bit, to think of her uncle as being gone.

"My Uncle was passive and unselfish and almost always benevolent… unless you did something to put his anger on boil." She lifted one eyebrow into a perfectly derisive arch. "Which _you_ of course did." Kratos merely gave her a smugly arrogant look. Briseis humphed again. "But this creature only thinks of death and destruction, of power and chaos. And of exacting revenge upon the brother that abandoned him- once when he was a child and then again as an adult."

"How do you know so much about this creature? Why-" his rumbling voice died as he gazed into the distance. Her words slammed into him and he snapped his gaze back to her. "Brother?"

Her fingers were gentle as they caressed his cheek. Those fingers burned with a primordial power as they stroked, as they touched. Her eyes went pearlescent, were depthless, ancient. And so achingly sad that he reached for her, tried to offer her what comfort he could. Kratos had looked into power before and knew that he was looking at it now.

"It is Deimos that rules the underworld now, Kratos."

"Deimos."

Slowly, so slowly her skin had time to prickle and heat; his fingers traced the curve of her collarbone, over the rounded curve of her shoulder, down the line of her back not marred by the harpies' talons.

"It is Deimos who holds you."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he seeks to fulfill a prophecy made after we were born."

"A prophecy?" he asked. "What prophecy?"

"A prophecy that foretells of the birth of twins that would bring balance to the world after the marked warrior plunged it into chaos."

Her voice trembled. But her eyes were blue once more. And openly vulnerable.

"I need your help, Kratos. I can neither stop Deimos on my own nor fight him off for very much longer. Please, if you possess any regard for the friends we were once, help me."

He drew her into his arms, felt the way that her body shivered with fatigue and fear. "Where does he have you imprisoned, Briseis?"

"In the Temple of Persephone," she said as she pressed her face against his shoulder. "He's imprisoned me in the Temple of Persephone."

He turned with her in his arms and was taken aback when he saw that the cliffs and temple were gone, that only ruins and blackened ground remained. All that was left of the temple was part of the retaining wall and the two front columns. Crocuses grew in the shadow of where the temple had once stood. The scent of them was everywhere, heady, intoxicating. Briseis was still in his arms but her body felt intangible, transparent. Her power was waning and fast, he realized, instincts long-honed making him tighten his hold upon her in order to keep her with him.

"Who did this?"

"Deimos did this," she whispered against his over sensitized skin. "Because he hates the gods and you most of all."

"Because the gods abandoned him. Because they left him to his fate."

"No," she corrected. "It's because they chose you…" she sighed once, softly. "Because _I_ choose you."

He shook his head, started to speak, but she lifted a hand to his face. It passed through him as if he were a ghost. Or she was.

"You must journey to the underworld one more time, Kratos. Destiny cannot be denied, a spell cannot be broken. Without you, he will win. And I will be lost. I have always been loyal to you, Ghost of Sparta." As she spoke, she moved back, thick, gray mist swirling around her legs. "Find my brother, the sea god Triton. He will give to you the gift that I entrusted to him long ago."

Then lifting her arms, raising palms to the heavens, she closed her eyes. The wind roared like a beast unleashed, lifting her dark hair, blowing the folds of her chiton around her.

"I have little left," she called over the violence of the storm. "But what is in me can still call to the five corners. I give what is mine freely. Find me, find truth. Find me, find destiny. Find me, find redemption. Find me, Kratos. Or all hope is lost."

Then she was gone. Vanished. And all went silent and still. He awoke gasping for breath. And calling her name.


End file.
